Here are their letters. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. You told me just now that you wished to speak a few words to me in private, concerning Thames Darrell, and for that purpose I have left my father below with Mr.
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